


Memory Is Overrated

by Whreflections



Series: Avengers/X-Men crossover verse [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Indecisive-ness, M/M, Protective Natasha, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan has to make up his mind about joining the Avengers...except that that's not really what the decision's about at all. If he can make up his mind about what this thing with Clint really is, maybe he can figure out what to do about everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Is Overrated

_Memory_   
_Is overrated_   
_All they do is get you damn frustrated_   
_And who needs that on their back?_   
_-Sick and Tired, Cross Canadian Ragweed_

_  
_All the way back inside, he’d been thinking how he shouldn’t be there. He should be driving still, either around the city or all the way back upstate. That one _really_  wasn’t a bad idea, because if he just took off, he’d skip all the trouble of goodbyes and by the next time he came around, Clint’d probably hate him enough that it wouldn’t matter. Of course, he hadn’t followed through on any of it, had followed instead the stupid nagging tug toward the mansion that had only been fueled by Rogers and that look on his face, too much  _belief_  in his own words. The kid was so sincere it was ridiculous.   
  
The real reason though, the source of the pull and all his problems was right behind the door he pushed it carefully open, slow, so it wouldn’t squeak. Clint was there, just like he’d thought he would be, fast asleep in tangled sheets. From the door Logan could see the thin sliver of skin where his shirt rode up over his boxers, hear his breath against the pillow. The air was thick with his scent. Fuck, but he  _wanted_. The urge to cross the room was almost unbearable, made stronger by the certainty that no matter what he’d said when he left, Clint would take him back into his bed with open arms. Barton was a light sleeper. He could go to him, rub a hand over his chest, pull him up and kiss him and maybe they wouldn’t even talk, not tonight. No, if he was betting, he’d have put his money on Clint just letting him fuck him, not trying to get anything out of him other than his name until tomorrow. He could lose himself in it, in the heat of his body and the way he moaned as Logan took him. ‘Not pushing’ was definitely a fixture on the long list of things the man was good at. Usually, at least.   
  
It was the quieter need, though, that tore at him the most, the part of him that wanted nothing more than to just collapse into that bed, to sleep with strong arms around him and Clint’s body next to his own. The list of people that knew everything about him and still wanted to share a bed with him was laughably short, but Clint had never wanted anything less. He’d made that clear enough from the first night. They’d come together rough with adrenaline in the aftermath of victory, and though it had ended up here in Clint’s bed he’d had no intention of staying. He remembered it with perfect, burning clarity, the way he’d tried to pull away only to feel the firm pressure of Clint’s hand on his chest, not nearly enough to restrain him but plenty capable of catching his attention.   
  
From anyone else the whispered “You don’t have to go.” might have sounded less sincere, and hell, for all Logan knew, maybe it had been and he shouldn’t have thought otherwise, but somehow, he’d believed him. When he’d woken up the first time from one of his nightmares to find Clint behind him, his hands light but steady on his shoulders, that had just seemed like a baffling confirmation. For whatever reason, the man wasn’t afraid, didn’t shy away from him even at his most uncontrolled. It had been a long time since he’d known what that felt like, and every time before, it had never been something he could keep, always incredibly fleeting. At this point, something always happened. He had to get out of there, get back up to the school before Clint had a chance to be added to the list of everyone he’d dragged down. He knew it, kept trying to remind himself of it every time another week went by, but he’d put if off one more day and one more and maybe just one more and…   
  
Logan shrugged off his jacket, quietly as he could manage. The soft rustle wasn’t enough to wake him, not even when he stepped inside to drape it over a chair near the door. The last look he got as he eased the door shut showed him Clint still sleeping, undisturbed.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
The way his body works, Logan doesn’t exactly ‘need’ sleep. He needs some, sure, but if he doesn’t get it or doesn’t get enough, the damage repairs. None of that means he doesn’t like it, but it gets him by when he’s only able to catch snatches.   
  
After getting used to not only a soft bed but one with Clint’s warmth beside him, the couch he finally crashed on was ridiculously lacking. It was stupid on a couple levels, not the least of which being the fact that he had a room of his own around here, and it would’ve been easy enough to use it. He’d kept pretending to use it for quite awhile now, after all. Nothing about it had sounded appealing, though, so one of the dozens of couches in a room no one ever used much seemed like the best alternative.   
  
He woke to some distant thud, muffled even to his ears. Before he was even all the way up, his brain was already writing it off. Thor was always making a godawful racket. To the side, light streamed down through a skylight, throwing light with its thin winter warmth to fall in slivers against his jeans. It was probably noon, or close to it.   
  
Around the mansion everyone would be going about their business, wasting time or sparring or heading out on missions or recruitment. If he slipped out then, he probably wouldn’t be missed until later. Possibly, at least, but he swatted the thought away almost as quickly as it came. When it came right down to it, all the other clamor of the question stripped away, he just wasn’t ready to make a decision. Staying meant a hell of a lot he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge, wasn’t sure he wanted to risk, but the thought of leaving had felt bitter and wrong even before he’d seen the look on Clint’s face when he forced out the words.   
  
It wasn’t really the shock that dragged on him, or even the moment of kicked dog style pain he’d seen flash through his eyes, it was the walls that had come down  _after_ , snapping over and masking everything. Clint had told him to do what he wanted, the words steady though he turned his back to say them, finding something at his desk to busy his hands with. It’d crossed his mind more than once that half the reason he needed to leave was for Clint’s own good, but it was one thing to think it and another to see something that looked so much like confirmation. He’d shut down, shielded himself because from what he was guessing was a pretty decent list of things in Clint’s life that had ended up fucked(No one in their line of work was healthy and well adjusted, he was  _sure_  of it.), Logan was becoming just one more thing that hurt. He had too many scars of his own to ever want to be anyone else’s.   
  
Just remembering that look alone tumbled his head into too many things, a scrabbled, confusing mess.   
  
 _If you leave now- Too late already, I can’t- Can’t what? Too late for you or for him? Jesus, pull yourself together, you’ve done it before you know- How to leave? Is that really all you know?_  
  
His slammed his fist into the wall, his claws digging in. The concussion of the movement knocked a plate on display off a nearby table, pieces splintering after it hit the corner as it fell. Between Tony’s money and Pepper’s decorating hobby the damn thing was probably priceless, though  _he_  wouldn’t have been willing to buy it at WalMart.   
  
Forehead coming to rest against the wall he took a deep breath, grounding himself in the aftermath of action, the pain where his skin had split open and the faint scent from the chipped paint around the edges of the holes in the wall. The pain was crucial, familiar and enough a part of him to restore a little bit of balance. Short term, at least, maybe that was his answer. He couldn’t drink this whole damn mess away, but he might could burn it off with violence and sweat and focus.   
  
He sheathed his claws, dusted his hand off once on his jeans as he turned away from the wall. Tony could find the claw marks and have them fixed on his own time. It wasn’t like the man would miss the pocket change, and after the talk he’d had with Steve the night before, Logan wasn’t exactly feeling too charitable.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
With so many years gone by since he joined the X-Men, it had been ages since he’d practiced alone. At the school there was always a group to work with, either team members or members in training or simply students lacking basic combat knowledge. He’s used to it, now, and he loves it, however grudgingly he might admit it, but in the solitude, he can still lose himself.   
  
He poured everything into it, uncertainty and pain and fear and pointless rage, giving everything in him over to the animal that doesn’t care about consequences. Its only rewards are the feel of tearing under his claws, the warm sated feeling he gets sometimes when the sudden drive fades and he hears nothing in the silence but the drip and slide of his enemies’ blood. Sometimes, he hates the way he can lose it, ashamed of the bloodlust that makes him wonder at what kind of man it takes to let someone pump you full of indestructible metal, but others he loves it in a way he’d never dare to speak, the raw elemental  _power_  of it, in its own way something so concentrated it’s almost pure.   
  
All of that, though, he can only think  _after_ , or before. In the moment he’s utterly lost, instinct driven as he slices through dummies, unfazed by the stuffing that batters against his hands in the place of thick red.   
  
His focus broke only with the thud of a knife into the wall just inches from his face, and he snarled before he reined almost everything in, breathing heavy with his claws still extended as he jerked his head to look back over his shoulder.   
  
“I thought you were leaving.” Natasha’s voice absolutely dripped acid, her eyes boring into him even across the distance between them.   
  
“That’s funny, I don’t recall telling  _you_  anything.” The urge to snap back at her was too great to resist, but even as he said it it carried more empty snarl than actual conviction. Of course she knows. She has Clint’s trust. Without a doubt, he told her everything.   
  
“I’m not dancing around this with you,  _Wolverine_.” She slinks across the floor to get right up in his face, reaching up to yank the knife from the wall. To her credit, she didn’t even look at the claws once. “If you’re going, you should go. As far as I’m concerned the sooner you’re out of our lives the better off mine will be.”   
  
He still hadn’t cast off the animal from his training session, not really, though the growl that rose form his chest probably couldn’t have been controlled even if he’d tried. “It’s none of your damn business what I do.”   
  
“You involve Clint, you  _make_  it my business.” Her voice was still soft and collected, smooth as polished steel. “Let me make this very simple for you since you seem to struggle with anything you can’t shoulder your way through. I’ll give you that it’s not up to me to ask you to leave. For some unfathomable reason, the moron wants you here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a few screws loose himself, I don’t know and I don’t really care, but issues involving his sanity aside, he is my  _brother_ , do you understand? He’s been through enough in his life already. If you don’t leave  _now_  and you stick around only to make this worse? I will make it my personal mission to find a way to kill you and make him think it was an accident.”   
  
With one quick swipe he had grabbed her wrist in his hand, tugging with just enough pressure at the right angle to twist the knife out of it. With the motion he retracted his claws, the adamantium neatly slicing a small tear into the sleeve of her shirt. For a second, the echo of the blade hitting the concrete floor filled up the space between them.   
  
“Y’don’t scare me, sweetheart.”   
  
He could feel the tension in her, the urge to pull against his grip that she kept resisting. He had to hand it to her, the girl had nerves of steel. Under different circumstances, he’d have appreciated it a lot more.   
  
“Which is why you won’t see me coming.” Finally, she moved to pull away from him and he let her go, his hand opening readily at the first sign of pressure. “Just think about it, Logan.” Her voice carried back over her shoulder as she walked away, as soft and mock innocent as it had been from the minute she stepped into the room.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
For anyone, watching Clint shoot was like seeing art in motion. For someone who’d been sharing his bed for a couple months, it had a lot more in common with porn. Seeing him with that kind of laser focus, muscles pulled tight as he drew back on the bow, the kind of fluid ease he had as he reloaded faster than seemed humanly possible,  _all_  of it was enough to coax heat to simmer under Logan’s skin. Damn, but he was stunning, beautiful and dangerous and perfect.   
  
He hadn’t meant to come down to the underground shooting range, not at first. Well, not ever, really. But the more he’d paced around the mansion the more he’d realized just how the whole goddamn place seemed to shrink when you were avoiding someone. At the back of his mind the look on Clint’s face the day before had twisted its way back into prominence, mingling with his own fears and wants and words until he’d finally been ready to throw his hands up in defeat. Rather than waiting for the moment Clint found him, he’d headed down to where he was almost sure the man would be.   
  
For some people practice was necessary, for others a chore. For Clint, it was probably technically necessary, here and there, but mostly it wasn’t anything other than fun. He often toyed with the moving targets the way a cat would a mouse, seeing how much of the edges he could shave away before nailing the center with a brutally direct hit. He was always unbelievable, riveting to watch even if he hadn’t looked like sex doing it. Logan knew both those things as constants, absolutes from every practice he’d seen since he came to the mansion.   
  
Except for this one. Oh he was excellent, still, undeniably better than anyone else alive even off his game, but to Logan’s now familiar eyes there was no denying that was exactly what he was. His shots lacked just a little bit of that  _something_ that made them sing, and they hit without the sharp staccato certainty he’d already grown accustomed to. Clint was shooting, sure, but it was an exercise in autopilot, not a practice. He couldn’t even be paying attention.   
  
Logan sidled a little closer to lean up against the wall behind him, arms crossed over his chest.   
  
“Looks good. I’d be impressed if I hadn’t seen you do better.”   
  
By the look of it Clint  _just_  managed not to jerk, though the way he drew his arms back quick and shifted the arrow he’d been about to loose to his other hand kind of gave the impatience away anyway. “Logan…” Yesterday, when he left Clint had hardly been able to look at him. Now, he didn’t look like his attention could’ve been peeled anywhere else. “I thought you were-“  
  
“Yeah, not yet.” Wolverine cleared his throat, shifted against the wall to stand a little taller. He hadn’t exactly meant to interrupt, he just suddenly hadn’t wanted to hear him say it. Even so, he should’ve said something, anything else to follow it, but the words just didn’t come, not until Clint had managed to look away, heading over to slot his bow into its position on the wall.   
  
“Not today, just soon then? You talk to Storm?”   
  
Logan shook his head, realized too late that Clint couldn’t see him and pushed off the wall to follow him. “Haven’t heard from her past couple weeks.” Not that she hadn’t called. The last time, he just hadn’t answered. The closer he got, the more he could see the tension in Clint’s shoulders, just where he could’ve fit his hands…  
  
“Listen, I-“  
  
“You don’t owe me anything, Logan. If you wanna go, who am I to stop you, right? Take care of yourself.” It wasn’t fair, really, for it to hurt him as much as it did. He was the one who’d said he was leaving, after all, the fucked up mess that couldn’t keep himself straight much less a relationship. He didn’t have a right to be hurt by anything Clint could say to him now, but it stung him all the same. He couldn’t let him walk away, couldn’t stand the thought that maybe he actually would.   
  
“ _Clint_.” On impulse like that, reaching out was easier than he’d thought it might be. His hand wrapped easily around Clint’s wrist, holding him in place as he stepped up behind him. Clint didn’t pull away, didn’t even try, and when Logan stepped close enough for his breath to brush across the back of Clint’s neck, he was almost sure that he leaned just a little closer. Hell, the possibility of it was better than nothing, and  _he_  was better like this than with words he struggled to find. He dipped his head farther, nuzzling against the tense line of the other man’s throat. He heard the catch in Clint’s breath, satisfying and distracting. He stilled, breathing against his skin, taking in the spreading arousal weaving its way into his scent.   
  
Logan licked his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing skin just enough to taste salt. In his grip, Clint shivered, the brush of heat too fleeting to be anything more than temptation. Everything around them felt impossibly still, all his senses focused on this man that probably shouldn’t be letting him do this but didn’t seem to be about to say a word. Clint tilted his head just a little more, an offering and an invitation right there for the taking, that soft skin over his pulse where he could suck until Clint pressed against him like an animal in heat, keening. He knew he could make him do it; he’d done it before, buried inside him from behind, one arm wrapped around his waist as Clint arched back against his chest.   
  
He was so close, the scratch of his beard dragging over his skin before his lips brushed against it.   
  
“Still wanna leave?” Forget stopping Clint from actually talking, apparently he couldn’t even stop himself. Jesus  _Christ_. The urge to know was just too stupidly strong.   
  
Clint took a deep breath, his voice low when he spoke. “Never did. You?”   
  
Well, wasn’t that the million dollar question. Under his fingers, he could feel that somewhere over the last few minutes Clilnt’s pulse had steadied. Fast, but even.   
  
“I meant it. You’re right; you don’t owe me a damn thing. But I guess I thought maybe that was before and-“  
  
The door burst inward with a bang, the cavernous room instantly echoing with Thor’s voice.   
  
“-with Mjolnir, I have never had the need. But I am eager to learn the art of these Midgardian long range weapons from you, my sister. A good warrior is always eager to broaden his skills.” Thor didn’t even see them at first, his eyes on Natasha as she came through the door behind them. Natasha, on the other hand, zeroed in on them like a flaming bullseye, and it was her narrow eyed gaze that shifted Thor’s attention. “Clinton, Logan, you have been practicing!”   
  
Sure. And if Logan’d been a little less eager to run his stupid mouth off, he just might have walked in on them practicing something else. His fingers had twitched with the urge to let go the minute he heard the door, but he’d seen her at the same time, a flash of her hair back behind the god and his beloved hammer, and he tightened his grip. A snarling urge in his chest overruled everything else, something spiteful and possessive that wanted her to  _see_ , to pay attention to the way Clint didn’t pull against his grip. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers, letting his hand slip away as he stepped back.   
  
“It’s his practice. I just stopped by.”   
  
After that, he didn’t exactly  _mean_  to avoid Clint for the rest of the day, but he didn’t go out of his way to find him either. The only one he did manage to find, entirely by accident, was Tony Stark. He was passed out asleep on a leather couch downstairs near the kitchen, with a warm blanket pulled up around him. Tony could sleep like the dead anywhere, living in his house it was impossible not to notice that, but he never bothered with trivialities like pillows and blankets; that bit obviously had to be Rogers handiwork. The kid was still looking out for him, even after what he’d seen. If Stark didn’t pull his head out of his ass and realize what he had, then he really would be a damn fool.   
  
When he made it back to the room he’d barely used, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it on, just to check. He had a few messages, but the only one to catch his attention was from Marie.   
  
 _Heard you might not be back in time for finals. Peter’s doing a pretty good job with your class, but I think everybody misses you anyway. I know you’re busy, just wanted to say hey._    
  
Sometimes, he couldn’t help but think life had been much easier when he was just a freak amnesiac on the run.   
  
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’   
  
Every now and then, S.H.I.E.L.D. sent redundant personnel by. That was the only way he could think of them, at least, because they had no real purpose other than supplying unnecessary paperwork that Coulson would’ve eventually found a way to either do or force on them anyway. Tony usually ignored them(unless they were hot, in which case he occasionally flirted with them before he ignored them), Natasha was civil with them, and for his own part Logan had snapped and told one of them that since he technically wasn’t a member they couldn’t make him do jack shit. The man hadn’t quite known how to respond to that. Thor just flat out didn’t understand the concept of paperwork or feel that he should be required to do it, and he probably never would be considering the way Jane stepped in to do it for him. They were an irritation for everybody, Coulson included, so the presence of Secretary #500 while he was in the next room over would’ve been irritating enough no matter who the man had been talking to. The fact that Clint was the audience only ratcheted up the degree of grating.   
  
From where he stood at the island in the kitchen smoking his cigar he could hear everything. Her words, the insinuations behind them, the way she was flirting so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised to go look and find her licking Barton’s boots. He was squeezing his cigar nearly tight enough to crush it, torn between the urge to storm out and get in his truck and the urge to storm in there and…  
  
What? What did he have a right to do, exactly? Fuck, hadn’t he been the one pointing out that this whole thing was never supposed to be serious? That was what he’d told Rogers, what he’d kept telling himself for weeks. It didn’t matter if he’d practically been living with the man, it wasn’t what it looked like, and it certainly wasn’t the reason he kept staying. They’d been busy, that was all, they needed his help and right then the X-Men didn’t, and that was all there was to it. He was a friend, sure, and they were pretty damn good together, but he wasn’t ready for a relationship, might never be, and whatever he might try to say to the contrary, Barton obviously was. At some point he’d want permanence, Logan had been able to see that in him almost from the beginning, and it was why he’d said what he had the second week, in a conversation with Coulson he knew Clint would hear.   
  
 _“Once this is over, you know I can’t stay.”_    
  
He’d said it to the agent but it had been Clint’s eyes he caught across the room, willing him to understand. This was transient only. It could never be more; he couldn’t let it be more. Somewhere, he’d lost track of his own advice.   
  
Eventually, one realization topped all the others enough to cut through the anger and even his own jumbled thoughts, enough to make him get up off his ass and crush the cigar out against the marble. Clint had brushed her off, every time, hadn’t returned a damn one of her veiled advances. Like a man that had already made up his mind, already belonged to someone else. In just about everything, there always came a point where fighting was just railing against the inevitable. He’d never been good at figuring that point out, at least not until he was a good few miles past it with wreckage in between. This time around, there might still be something he could salvage.   
  
Around the corner, the living room was already empty. He hadn’t even noticed she’d stopped talking or that the voices had stopped entirely, but even though it threw him off for a second, it wasn’t an obstacle. Clint wasn’t too hard for him to find.   
  
He paused outside the door of his room, could hear his movement inside it and for a second he almost didn’t knock. He _still_  didn’t knock even after he pulled his hand away from the handle, just laid his palm flat against the wood and leaned in close to the jamb.   
  
“Hey. Can I come in?”   
  
If he had a nickel for every time a member of his team has railed at him about being unpredictable, he’d be a very rich man. What he’d never tell them is that sometimes, he doesn’t know what he’s about to do either.   
  
He knows he should talk, finish the conversation they started yesterday, but Clint had stripped his shirt off already, was standing there in just his jeans, and it seemed like a much better idea to put the talking off.   
  
Instead he pushed him back against the wall, pinning him completely from hips to chest, and he didn’t give him time to question it. He cupped Clint’s face in his hands and descended on his mouth with an almost violent hunger, groaning low in his throat at the clash of teeth and tongue and the feel of desperate hands finding purchase against his chest, clutching at his shirt. From the outside it might have looked like a fight for dominance at first but even then it wasn’t, the equal force Clint gave back to him only serving to draw him deeper, make him press harder against him. It was fucking incredible, messy and chaotic but with a taste that was intoxicating, even when Cilnt’s teeth snagged on his lip and spilt blood into the kiss.   
  
Logan didn’t even hiss, too used to pain to be fazed by something so small, but for Clint, it wasn’t the kind of the thing it’d be possible to miss. His breath stuttered, his grip shifting so he could hold Logan’s head steady in his hands to let him draw back just enough to run his tongue over the tear, already healing as he soothed it. It was senseless, pointless and unnecessary and exactly the kind of thing Logan knew could break him if he let it.   
  
He moved his own grip to Clint’s hips, hands sliding around to squeeze his ass in unmistakable question. He doesn’t have to hold himself up, not now, not when they can get closer if he doesn’t. Logan can do that for him. Clint moaned, breaking the kiss to pant against Logan’s neck as he readily gave way, wrapping his legs around his waist and letting Logan hold him like that, thoroughly pinned. For Logan there was more to it than the better angle for the friction of their cocks trapped in their jeans, something undeniably heady and drugging about the fact that Clint is one of the strongest human men he’s ever known, but he’s still stronger and Clint  _lets_  him be without protest, melts into him like he doesn’t give a damn that in comparison he’s almost weak. For people like them, that kind of power isn’t something it’s easy to trust another person not to abuse, but Clint doesn’t doubt him, doesn’t have a second’s worry. Instead he just bit down on the juncture of Logan’s shoulder, hips already grinding against him like it was imperative.   
  
For a second Logan thought that he could back up, they could strip their jeans off and at least grind against each other with their cocks actually touching, but the impatience is too great even for that little effort. He shifted Clint to one hand just long enough to rip open his own shirt so their bare chests could meet at least, buttons scattering across the floor. That way he could feel the sweat and heat between them, almost feel the pounding of the heart he can hear thudding almost too fast, and that’s so much better that for then it’s more than good enough.   
  
Nothing else matters then but  _this_ , the way Clint’s hips jerked against him, muscles quivering under denim as he struggled to pull Logan tighter and tighter against his cock. Logan could feel it so well, so hard it had to be aching at with every move they make that’s too much and still not enough. He couldn’t last, he knew, wouldn’t even want to try because sometimes there was a lot to be said for fast and furious.   
  
He pulled away from a kiss, ignoring Clint’s groan of protest. He knew exactly what he was doing. Clint was close, so close he’d been moaning around Logan’s tongue as he tried to coax it deeper into his mouth. Logan bit down against his neck at the same time he thrust his hips against him, teeth sinking in just enough to make him cry out. There’s something about it  _right there_  that he loves, something that makes him shake and come undone, and he came with a few sharp thrusts of his hips like it was all he’d been waiting for, his moan trailing off softer.   
  
Logan gave himself over then, held on tight and blocked out everything but the Clint against him, warm and still clinging tight, smelling like sex and breathing with a contented kind of rasp. Only in the aftermath did he let Clint down to stand on his own feet again, though he didn’t really ease up even then, his pressure still keeping them both pressed tight to the bedroom wall.   
  
Slowly, he turned his head to press a kiss to Clint’s temple, one hand gently massaging his neck over the dark red mark he’d left there.   
  
“Fury might have talked to you about it, but he hasn’t even asked me yet. About joining.”   
  
Clint nodded, his eyes shutting as he leaned into the touch. “And?” He was still breathless, so much less weight in the word than everything he’d said had carried the day before.   
  
“Fuck if I know.” Because really, that’s the only answer he’s got. Whatever Steve says about belonging at the mansion, it might be a place he can stay sometimes, but whether he likes it or not, the school is home. It’s been home longer than he’s been willing to admit, but now, he’s got something else he can’t leave. They’re like opposing magnets, tugging hard. Right now Clint’s winning, but he can’t be sure how much of that’s proximity and how much is strength.   
  
Clint’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, his face burying against Wolverine’s shoulder, his breath wonderfully warm.   
  
“Whatever you tell him, when you need to go…” He hesitated, seeming to weight his own words before he pulled back to look Logan in the eye. “If you ask, I’ll go with you.”   
  
If he sticks around a few more weeks, that might be something he can manage to do. 


End file.
